The Odd Broad

Kittie Being Kittie...

Can you spot the surly tuxedo cat in this picture?

Preggo riding the chuck wagon

For the past year I've been playing first fiddle in the vegetarian bandwagon, and honestly, I can't remember ever feeling better!  My diet consisted of whole grains, complex carbohydrates, fruits, vegetables...processed food was out, and whole foods were in.  I laid in bed with Kittie and cried during PETA films.  Dinners were usually colorful vegetable kebabs served over whole grain couscous or brown rice, accompanied by a nice salad.

These days, when it comes to vegetable kebabs, I'm reminded of a phrase my two year-old Wonder Nephew is deeply fond of:

I can't want it.

I suppose I should just come right out and say it: I've fallen off the vegetarian wagon and landed face first in a vat of ground beef.

It began innocently enough.  My gateway drug was chicken broth.  One afternoon in late May rendered me quite down for the count, and there I was: lying slug-like on my bed with a set of rosary beads across my forehead, in the hopes for divine intervention (flair for the dramatic is sort of my specialty, and this was certainly no exception.)  Hubby was desperate to bring me anything that would be of some comfort.  The only thing I could even think about eating?  Chicken broth.  Sigh.

From there I moved on to the harder stuff, like chicken salad sandwich lunches with my friend Gregg, until I was a full blown user again.  The day I ate the steak and cheese sub from Alfredo's I knew it was all over.  (Peppers, onions, lettuce, tomato, pickles and mayo, please!)

I didn't enjoy it.  (Well, yes, actually I did, but not that much.)  It's true I spent the first thirty years of my life being a carnivore, but I'd really dived into this meatless lifestyle; I'd funneled the Kool Aid, so to speak.  My brain had retrained itself to be repulsed by animal flesh, afraid of it, even. 

Like a good Catholic, I chastised myself after every beefy bite, unable to stop visualizing those two big, gorgeous cow eyes I stared into during my company's volunteer day at the farm.  I was eating the animal's pain, and I knew it.  In a last ditch effort to spoil my appetite, I forced my mind to replay the horrific PETA images I'd seen, and still I chewed.  In between ravenous bites, I conveyed all this to Hubby, who began giving me one of those looks he gets when he feels his life partner is channeling her inner lunatic. 

The midwife assured me it's not uncommon for a pregnant vegetarian to crave meat.  She encouraged me to eat whatever I wanted, but also said there are other ways to get the iron my body is probably wanting, by choosing spinach, kale, lentils, beans...

"If you can get those things down, by all means, you'll be fine.  But it could be your body will want the meat."

Beans...kale...lentils...spinach...

I can't want it.

Triple decker chicken sandwiches, cheeseburgers, steak tips (sniff)...I can want those things.  I really, really can.  Sweet Baby Jesus and Ingrid Newkirk forgive me.   

Revisiting the meals I've denied myself for over a year is like coming home again.  Today, despite the soaring temperatures and smoldering humidity, I stood over a hot stove and prepared two individual chicken pot pies, and ate them both in rapid succession.  (Well?  A friend had given me fresh thyme from her garden.  I owed it to her to take those herbs and combine them with bacon, chicken, garlic and mushrooms!)

I'm sorry, Dear Reader!  I hope I haven't let you down.  I was loving my veggie lifestyle!  I'm certainly hoping to return to it, once my body becomes my own again.  In the meantime...I'm just another bastard carnivore. 

I'm pregnant, don't make me dropkick you

An update on my downstairs neighbor, whom I initially suspected might give my old landlord (Smeagol, of Lord of the Rings fame) a run for his money.  It looks as if my instincts were correct!

For one thing, he continues to insist on leaving the door unlocked and open to accommodate the three morbidly obese stray cats who come and go at their leisure.  (Hubby went into the basement last week and left with flea bites all over his legs!)  For another, the fire department has mysteriously issued us an "Abatement Order" because our gas grill is a fire code violation.  Failure to comply will result in court action.

In case you didn't know: Everyone has a grill in South Boston!  If you were to stand on my back deck and look either left or right, you'd spy intoxicated twenty-somethings and barbecues as far as the eye can see!  Why were we the only ones being targeted?

I smelled a rat.  Obviously it was the meddlesome busybody downstairs.  Who else?  All this happened yesterday, and it was such a downer that I nearly didn't answer when Hubby called for me to come look outside. 

"What is it?" I asked, already not wanting to know the answer.

"Just come outside and look..."

And there, sitting silently on my back deck, I spotted my blooming tomato plant in all its luscious glory.  Only this plant had been the victim of a vicious attack!  The biggest tomato, the one that had been the first to bloom and the source of so much genuine hope and excitement, was now strewn on the chair, with a BITE TAKEN OUT OF IT!!!!

Another tomato, still green and on the vine, had also been nibbled.  Initially we suspected it had to have been a squirrel, and the little shit obviously doesn't even like tomatoes, since he took one bite and then discarded the poor thing.  But then another idea popped into my head: what if it was one of those cats?  Portly though they are, the little buggers can still climb.  We've seen one of them on the highest branch of an enormous tree.

I'd had it.  The grill, the door, the fleas, the tomato...

"If one of those filthy, disgusting cats ate my tomatoes..." I said in a far too loud voice, "I'M CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL!"

Hubby had had enough as well.  The man really hearts grilling.  He sat down and emailed our landlady, and to paraphrase: The basement needs to be fumigated, to get rid of the fleas that are a result of the stray cats who come and go through the unlocked door that the downstairs neighbors insist upon leaving open 24 hours a day.  Ha!  Take THAT, a-hole!

Did I mention the neighbor and the landlady are related?

The landlady never responded to Hubby.  Instead, she forwarded the email to our neighbor, with nary an explanation to Hubby.  "We need to talk," was all the neighbor wrote in his reply.

Is it me?  Or are these people completely frigging fracking insane?  And why is it always us?  Why does everyone else on the block have grills?  (And potentially flealess basements?)

To make a long story even longer, Hubby wrote back a curt email of his own, saying only that his wife is pregnant and living in an apartment with fleas just isn't an option.  (He never mentioned the grill business.)  The neighbor wrote back once more, saying he planned on fumigating the place, that the fleas were from his dogs being recently boarded (Huh?), and by the way- congratulations on my being pregnant!

So, sadly, no more grilling for us.  Sigh.  Perhaps Hubby can toss a hunk of meat over to the dude on the next deck over.  ("Hey, man, can you cook this medium rare?")  He called the fire department today and confirmed our suspicion: "someone" had indeed reported us.  He was also told not to empty the propane tank, but not to keep it on the deck, either.  When he asked whether or not he could drop it off at a fire station, the man on the phone answered, "Yeah, I guess; I'm sure one of the guys would be happy to take it home and use it!" 

Again, is it me?  Or are we living in Bizarroland??

        

Hey, do you have a moment for...?

At the risk of sounding completely heartless and uncaring, what the f*ck is up with those pesky Children's International representatives on Boylston Street?  Never before have I encountered such aggression, and this is coming from a woman who lived in New York for eight years!

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a game of Frogger, only instead of trying to avoid cars, I'm dodging college kids with clipboards.  And there are just so many of them!  I try my best to maneuver out of their way, but on certain afternoons they are literally quite impossible to avoid.  Couple that with the vexing pedicab crew and a broad just might accidentally run herself into oncoming traffic! 

I can spot them on my radar twenty feet away, but it doesn't matter, because they've spotted me first.  I veer away from them, creating an invisible shield between us, but it's pointless.  Who am I kidding, they'll always swoop in for the kill.

"Hi there!  Do you care about children?"

OR:

"Hey, come on, I'll only need two minutes of your time!"

OR:

"Wanna make a friend?!  It'll only take a second!"

Do you know something, Children's International dude?  I'm not playing!  You won't ensnare me!  No siree, Barbara!

Whether I'm talking on my cell phone or deeply engrossed in conversation with a friend is entirely inconsequential; the clipboard wielders will attempt to get me to stop and chat nonetheless.  Some days I smile and explain that I've got to get back to work.  Sometimes I mix it up and pretend I don't speak English.  On Friday I was in an edgier mood and simply muttered, "You are obnoxious" under my breath, only I'm fairly certain I uttered it loud enough for him to hear.

I can empathize with working a shitty job, surely we've all been there.  Waiting tables during the Fall of 2000 at The Olive Garden in Times Square certainly springs to mind.  Hubby even spent an unfortunate couple of weeks knocking on doors for MASSPIRG during the summer of that same year.  But if these college kids don't want to stand on a street corner day in and day out harassing unresponsive passerby, I have a news flash for them: they can get another job!  (I certainly did, after a particularly awful group of Olive Garden patrons left me a $3 tip.  On an $80 bill.)

It's kind of like having a telemarketer follow you around on your lunch break.  EVERY DAY.  Again, this may sound cold, but if there's one thing I learned in New York, it was to mind my own damn business.  Because once eye contact has been established, all bets are off.  And in my experience, talking to strangers rarely ends well.  Chatting with strangers has led me down ridiculous alleyways (like the time I signed up for Scientology classes, or the day that pyschic lady on Ditmars Boulevard tried to bully me into buying $50 worth of magic crystals.)  Fool me once, shame on you, dickhead!  But fool me twice, well, shame on me.  I am now firm on this rule.  No stop and chats, under any circumstances!

I won't lie; this rule can sometimes make me feel like a monster.  Especially when the person trying to get my attention is merely lost.  In light of this, offering directions is currently the sole exception to my rule.

Of course, there are loopholes in this exception.  It was scorching hot the other day and I sat on the steps of the Boston Public Library to rest my legs.  That's when I noticed an Asian girl standing not too far away, repeatedly glancing at me.  She looked sort of lost; maybe she was looking for the closest T station or something?  Since we were mainly surrounded by crackheads, wasn't it only natural she would seek out me, a kind faced pregnant woman, to point her in the right direction? 

Come on, Odd Broad, be a Good Person.  I made brief eye contact, and naturally it was all downhill from there.

"Do you believe in God?"  She asked, a smile flashing across her pretty face.

We've got a live one here, folks.  Since I was already sitting down, I was pretty much a captive audience.  "Uh-huh," I nodded, "Yes, I do."

(Oh Baby Jesus, get me out of here!  When will I learn?  I was just trying to be nice and look where it lands me!)

"Oh, good!  So have you ever heard of God the mother, then?"

"Do you mean Mary?" I warily asked, to which she replied, "No, no, Mary was a human, she gave birth to Jesus; I'm talking about God, the mother..."

She'd lost me the minute she dismissed Mary (what can I say, I'm kind of a groupie), and when she asked if I'd like to spend some time together so I could learn more about this God the mother, I told her I suddenly had to meet someone.  She then asked for my email address and phone number and I delivered the line that took me years to perfect: "How about you give me yours instead?"

Works like a charm every time.

       

This gives me the Kozmic Blues

I almost retched into my milkshake last night when a friend's Facebook status mentioned something about Amy Adams to play Janis Joplin.

Amy Adams?  Seriously?  Is nothing sacred?

With all due respect, that redhead with the sickly sweet voice is set to portray Janis?  It was all I could do to get past that treacly voice of hers in Julie and Julia, but for her to be chosen to represent one of the most important musical icons of the Twentieth Century?  It's not right, I tell you!

It was almost enough to send me into complete hormonal overdrive.  Not that I harbor a strong opinion on the matter or anything.  (And not that I'm particularly hormonal lately.)

I was still able to finish my milkshake, luckily, but just barely. 

Expansion...

Same old broad, typing on the same old keyboard, with the same cat sitting on my lap, only this time...I'm pregnant!  And doing a good job of polishing off a bag of Trader Joe's Baked Cheese Crunchies and several slices of watermelon.

Odd Broad Land is under construction, Dear Reader!  Literally. 

The time frame between making the decision to start a family and actually becoming pregnant was a teeny tiny sliver.  Not that this surprises me, really.  Hubby and I are really big on following our intuition.  We might wait eons to decide we're finally ready to do something, but then once we have, I can almost hear the Universe shouting, "it's about f*cking time, you assholes!"  Things tend to move pretty quickly after that.  This wasn't any different.

As for me, I was sitting in Copley Square during Fleet Week and saw an older man burping a tiny, almost homely baby and became overwhelmingly emotional.  It was that elusive sign I'd been waiting for.  I came home that evening and told Hubby I was ready to have a baby, and he in turn decided that he was ready, too.  Almost immediately, I started to feel pregnant.  I knew I was, somehow.

Sissy worried that I was jumping the gun.  She didn't want me to be disappointed, and told me this sort of thing can take time; six months, possibly even a year.  Who could know for sure?  Live your life!  She'd advised me one afternoon, after I'd called to ask her if I could eat the bleu cheese on my salad.  "You can eat whatever you want!  You're probably not pregnant..."

I convinced myself she must be right.  What did I know about this, anyway?  Even as the doctor gave me a test that showed I was "a little pregnant," some small part of me remained skeptical.  She cautioned that there was a chance this result wasn't accurate; it was still early, and I should take a home test over the weekend to confirm. 

I was a little pregnant.  Huh.  I'd known this all along, hadn't I?  I walked back to work slowly, delicately, in a groovy little love bubble.  It was as if I were walking with a stack of encyclopedias balanced on my head.  Some coworkers noticed I was acting sort of...strange.  I kept spontaneously running to the bathroom to hug myself silly.

And still it all felt sort of unreal.  I took a home test the next day, and two the following day, and one more for good measure the day after that, and still each time I wondered, could this be for reals?  Leave it to me, the poster child for the armchair obsessive compulsive, to take five pregnancy tests, one administered by a doctor no less, and still not trust the positive results.  But there you have it.  I do like to be thorough.  (It would be a week before Sissy would inform me that drinking 12 - 16 cups of water a day is just too much water.  Hydration during pregnancy is important, but there's a limit, apparently.)

I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Hubby's face when I told him I was pregnant.  It was the kind of look I wanted to seal in a Ziplock baggie, to be stored away forever for safe keeping.  Seeing his face made me wonder why on earth we'd waited so long to do this in the first place, which is how I often feel after we've jumped into something we've waited a very long time to do.  One thing I know beyond a doubt: he will be an excellent father.  You should see the way he takes care of me, and I'm kind of a pain in the ass. 

So there wasn't a whole lot of time to ease into the notion of starting a family, since we basically got preggers on the first try.  But by now, it's all very real.  (And exciting!)  I'm a week shy of my second trimester and the baby, that sweet little peanut, will be born under the sign of Aquarius.  I've always casually wondered if I'd try to orchestrate my child's astrological sign, but this one actually works quite perfectly for me.  My mother, an Aquarius herself, pointed out something rather neat: her mother was a Sagittarius, and so am I.  Therefore: a Sagittarius had an Aquarius, and an Aquarius had a Sagittarius, and now a Sagittarius is having an Aquarius.  I dig it.  I dig everything about this baby, truth be told. 

Granted, it's also a bit scary, and there are a ton of questions people keep asking us that we just don't have the answers to (ie: Daycare or no daycare?  Where will you fit all the baby's stuff?  When will you buy a car?  Where will Hubby work after he's finished with school?), but that's okay.  One thing at a time.  When I saw our baby on that ultrasound machine, impossibly miraculous, its heartbeat blinking right before my eyes, all of those irksome questions melted away.  I could have died from love right then and there.  I realized, much to my surprise, that in a way I've been waiting for this moment my entire life.  That every silly journal entry I've ever written, every memento or childhood book or toy I've ever held onto, has all been in the hopes that I'd someday have somebody to share it with.  Someone like that tiny sweetheart of an Aquarius, who's been hanging out in my belly; silent, mysterious, and so so loved.  xoxo

Belated Musings...

There wasn't much I felt inspired to write about whilst I was keeping my big secret from you, Dear Reader.  Honestly, I've been pretty exhausted as of late.  Oh, I had a few ideas.  I thought about concocting a tirade on that heinous Katie Perry song, California Gurls ("daisy dukes, bikinis on top"), and how it makes me want to wash my ears out with antibacterial cleanser, but I sort of ran out of steam.

Several times I went to write a post on Kristen Stewart and all her hunched-over surliness, but even my strong aversion to that little nitwit couldn't motivate me into a sitting position.  Plus, The Notebook was on TV.  Followed by Medea's Family Reunion. 

I was going to write about the oil spill, but it's too upsetting. 

I very much wanted to write about the Tony awards, and how dreadfully bittersweet it feels to watch ex-classmates perform on them.  While I was on the subject, I might have asked specifically which narcotic had been administered to a one Ms. Catherine Zeta-Jones, whose rendition of Sondheim's Send in the Clowns was nothing short of foul smelling.  It was the kind of performance that makes one's mouth hang involuntarily open, and midway through it I screamed out to Hubby, who rushed into the room and asked, "What is it?"

"Look!  Look at what Catherine Zeta-Jones is doing!"  The horror!  Curiously, Hubby's level of concern did not match my own. 

Seriously, though, who told her to do that with her eyes?  The woman appeared to be possessed by a non-human entity.  It would have taken a top notch demonologist to save that performance.  Naturally, she won the Tony for best actress in a musical. 

Soon after, I switched channels in favor of The Golden Girls, which is a little sad, because it meant I missed seeing this:

HUH? 

Katie Holmes is 5' 9".  Daniel Radcliff stands 5' 8".  Now, I'm no math whiz here, but something just doesn't seem right.  Tom, by the way, is 5' 7", two inches shorter than wifey, and yet...

Hey, Tom appears to be taller than Katie!  My word, is there anything that man can't do? 

I think it's safe to assume that something definitely appears to be off.  Perhaps TomKat has a thing against Hogwarts? 

Does this post make me look bloated?

Dear Reader,

I've been keeping a pretty major secret from you.  A lovely secret.  The most precious secret I've ever had the pleasure to keep, truth be told...

It hasn't been easy; as you know, I've long suffered from perpetual diarrhea of the mouth.  In a nutshell, when I mentioned yesterday I'd been chronically under the weather as of late, what I really wanted to tell you is...

I'm pregnant.  (Preggers!  With child!  Expecting!  Knocked up!  There's a cinnamon bun in the toaster oven!!!!)

There's a new little peanut in my life and I'm in love.  Big time.  Oh Reader, I'm just so happy.

That's my secret.  For the first time in my adult life, when some dingleberry comes up to me and asks, "Are you pregnant?"  I'll finally be able to answer...YES.  (Plus, now I won't want to stab them.)

xoxo

I apologize for the recently sporadic nature of my postings, Dear Reader, but yours truly has been chronically under the weather as of late.  More musings soon, that I promise...  xoxo

The Double take

Tonight, while riding the bus, I spotted a dude wearing a version of the footwear you see below... 

It was damn near impossible not to turn back for a second look.  I kept peering out of the corner of my eye to confirm what I'd just seen.  Yes.  This guy was wearing shoes...with toes.  While taking Mass Transit.  The fact that he was talking loudly and unabashedly on his cell phone made me feel a little less guilty about rubbernecking. 

A daring choice in foot adornment, my friend; especially while standing on a packed, rather putrid smelling bus.  And yet, I kind of feel the urge to salute you.  Well done, I say.

I wonder if they make them for webbed feet?